


Halfway Through The Holiday Bliss

by orphan_account



Series: What's A Four-Letter Word That Means Family? [3]
Category: 18th & 19th Century CE RPF, 18th Century CE RPF, Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Fluff, Internal angst, M/M, Underage Drinking, happy endings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-23
Updated: 2015-12-23
Packaged: 2018-05-08 15:24:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,935
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5502785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Christmas was over and New Years was fast approaching, which meant Phillip's window to tell George exactly how he felt was rapidly closing on him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Halfway Through The Holiday Bliss

The post-Christmas shuffle was an interesting one, not a rush so much as a steady meander. The tree came down before it rotted away, decorations stashed one by one to preserve them—it was really only the second time a year anyone would really get a chance to really see them.

And, of course, it was Phillips job to strip down the tree since he was one of the few people who could reach the top without a stepstool (no matter how many times his dad suggested they get smaller trees). He’d started early, everyone still tucked away and fast asleep from last nights Christmas feast.

Angie had loved the scarf Phillip had found for her, one of the few things he’d personally sought out and selected for his siblings. He’d picked up a video game James was talking about and a book Alex Jr. had wanted, but he and his sister had always traded more personalized gifts.

He’d found a particularly fluffy hand-knit one from a little shop when he’d gotten turned around walking home one night. It was a dull shade of purple and a little imperfect and slightly lumpy but he had the immediate impression that she would love it.

And that she did.

His dad had gotten him a pair of headphones with a way better microphone—a not so subtle comment on his late-night Skype not-dates with George. He had to resist the urge to roll his eyes when he’d opened it, but he was thankful none the less. His microphone had the habit of flickering in and out of functionality and it was getting a little frustrating to repeat himself so often.

Phillip tried to shake off the reverie he was trapping himself in so he could finish the task at hand before the house woke up. It was hard enough to get anything done with Thing One and Thing Two underfoot--but add on the background noise of rapid-fire French from his dad’s office and chatter and clanking from the kitchen as Adrienne passed down recipes and stories of saving her husbands ass in many a political conundrum—it made anything impossible. So Phillip instead took solace in the sweet, sweet moments of silence he was allotted. His only saving grace in the last few days had been George, and even that was more of struggle ever since that first night.

Phillip took another ornament down and tried really, really hard not to think about it. He’d woken up first, bleary-eyed but insanely comfortable. He felt safe, content to lie perfectly still until the world ended around him up until the exact moment he realized he was lying _on_ someone and that someone just so happened to be _Georges Washington Lafayette_.

Stop thinking, Phillip. He slid one of the nice glass ornaments into it’s box and set it aside, his traitorous mind drawing up memories he was trying really hard to repress.

Pick up, box, repeat. Pick up, box, repeat.

_He had carefully unwound George’s arms from where they were locked around Phillip’s narrow waist, his stomach turning itself over and over and over again like it was trying to stretch itself out into taffy. Slipping as silently as he could from the room, Phillip blindly and numbly made his way downstairs, practically choking on a pressing and rippling sensation of raw fear. He was enamored by George, that much was blatantly obvious—but they were friends. Friends. Just friends, and he wasn’t sure how much of that he wanted to risk on the backbone of desire—would he willingly throw away one of the closest (if physically distant) friendships he had from the chance to kiss him?_

Pick up, box, repeat. Pick up, box, repeat.

_Would he let himself make George uncomfortable? The very idea of changing their relationship status to something less than friends made him want to be sick, made him want to push away everything, curl up and hide for a decade. Why had he suggested this in the first place? Why was this his idea? Why was he stupid enough to think that bringing the object of his affections closer would made anything better?_

_He’d convinced himself he would tell him, he’d fully and wholly convinced himself. Had pep talks in the mirror, wrote down what he would say three times, burned the notebook pages in the fireplace and then did it all over again._

_He’d given the speech to his bedroom walls, to his ceiling, to his pillow and the backs of his eyelids—he knew what he wanted to do until he was staring his problem in the face and suddenly nothing made sense anymore._

Pick up, box, repeat. Pick up, box, repeat.

_He couldn’t face this problemhead-on; he knew he should but he just… These were the things he’d gone to his father for before. His dad—charming and smooth. He was the one with advice, he was the one with solutions (however stupid half of them were) he was the one with pick-up lines and jokes to sooth his rattled nerves. He had been tempted, that night, to drag his dad out of whatever conversation he and Lafayette were having—but he didn’t. He couldn’t._

_Instead, Phillip’s muscle memory had taken him down the stairs and past the living room to where his mother stood, silently washing coffee mugs out in the sink. She stiffed in surprise when he wrapped his arms around her from behind, pressing his forehead to her back, but didn’t chide him for sneaking up on her. She just turned around kissed his sleep-mussed hair as he rested his head on her shoulder._

_“I know, honey,” she had hummed, pressing a motherly hand to the back of his head, “I know.”_

There was a bow tied to one of the tree’s branches—off-white with a cluster of little bells and ' _1_ _996 A.H. + E.S.'_ painted on the long strings. When he was a toddler it was Phillip’s favorite because it was the only one that made sounds—every little bell ringing in unison. He’d stare in fascination, plump little hands grabbing at the low branch it was set on to shake the whole damn thing.

And as much as he loved it in his childhood, right now it was the bane of his existence because the goddamn knot holding it to the branch refused to come undone. His neat-clipped nails were useless against the nineteen-year-old ribbon and he was on the verge of giving up and just cutting the entire offending branch off before a sleepily-amused voice cut through the haze of silence.

“Mon ami, it would appear you’re having troubles.” Phillip went rigid. Of course.

He was sitting here, thinking about all his problems of the last week and one shows up. It had to be his luck, right?

But at least it was the pretty problem (read: the one he still couldn’t look in the eye). George was sitting on the couch—and judging by the half-filled cup of coffee in his hand he’d been there for a while. Wait. How long was he there? Long enough for it to be obvious that Phillip was too focused on his own thoughts not to notice? Would he ask what was on his friends mind? Could Phillip come up with a convincing lie?

He chanced a glance sideways towards his friend again and suddenly regretted it. His hair was fighting gravity and decidedly winning, a trace of stubble following the line of his jaw right to where the seam of a pillowcase had imprinted on his cheek. Phillip wanted to cry, he looked so downright adorable and unbelivably hot at the same time.

It wasn’t fair.

No one should look that great within fifteen minutes of waking up.

No one should look that great as soon as they showed up to where Phillip was still thinking about how bad he had it for said person. Now that, that was the least fair part of the whole problem. But still, despite the definite decision that it was total bogus that he had to deal with George looking fucking _perfect_ all the time, he should really either answer him or get back to trying to untie the bow.

Because as it stood Phillip was just looking between the two, silent and otherwise still.

“I didn’t surprise you too badly, did I? I haven’t been here long.”

He shook his head, “No you just kinda… spooked me, I guess. I thought no one else was up.”

“No one else is,” George amended, setting his mug down by the already boxed up ornaments. Phillip had over half the tree done already. “Do you always take your decorations down so soon? In a rush to get to the New Year?”

“Only sometimes” Phillip said, “as soon as the holidays are over, my dad’s in such a rush at work he couldn’t help if he wanted to, Angie locks herself away most days and Alex Jr. and James are pretty much useless for helping with anything half the time.” Okay that was mean, but they were at that age where dragging them out of their rooms was a useless endeavor unless it was for food. “My mom usually gets it done by New Years so I figured I might as well get on it when it’s calm enough to not lose and or break anything.”

George hummed in acknowledgement, plucking one of the little decorations off the tree. It was another old one, a picture of Phillip’s mother and two of his aunts. “We don’t decorate much. Not since my sisters left for school,” he admitted after a moment, examining the framed little picture before boxing it up for next year. “Both my parents get so wrapped up in the latest political breakdown sometimes I’m sure they forget it’s December. I’m still surprised we came to the states to visit to be honest.” He gave Phillip a warm smile, nudging his shoulder with his own. “But I am glad we did.”

God, Phillip really wished his mother hadn’t banned mistletoe from decorations after Christmas 2012 Debacle.

Instead of looking up, spying a little sprig miraculously appearing, and potentially either creating or ruining a relationship in one go… he smiled back. “I’m glad you did too. Hey, uh,” Phillip’s smile faded a bit as he went about pulling the last few bits and bobs down, “did you and your dad talk about schools yet? You said he wanted you to go to one in America, you guys talk about where?”

George hesitated, his fingertips brushing Phillip’s as he took the small objects from his hands to box up for him. “Sorta, not really. It’s… I applied to many, actually. My father was hoping to use some of the time we are here to visit one of the most promising campus’s.”

That perked up Phillip a bit. “Which one? I’ve applied to a few already, but honestly if my first choice turned me down I’d be really confused. I sorta… okay, it’s not cheating if you can get a letter of recommendation from the literal President of the United States _and_ two different congressmen, but it is in no way playing fair. And my dad went to Columbia too, so, there’s that.”

Instead of an answer, Phillip got a small smile instead, “I’ll tell you if it goes well, no? No need getting your hopes up.”

Oh if only he knew. He felt his hope sink anyway, settling down into the pit of his stomach.

“I dunno, G-Wash, you’re pretty shit at keeping secrets,” he managed to make his voice not sound horribly weak and dead. Bonus points to Phillip. The other boy laughed, a sound Phillip swore he would never get tired of, “I promise to tell you by New Years.”

\-------------------------------------------------------------------

“Are you _sure_ you don’t want to go?” Eliza asked one again, her eyes glancing over to where the certifiable mess of kids stood as she straightened Alexander’s tie only for him to somehow managed to get it off-center in the time it took her to take her hands off him. “No one will blame you if you don’t, but if you do, you still have time to get ready.”

“I promise, mom,” Phillip,ever the speaker of the house, “we don’t want to go to another ‘party,’” liberal use of air-quotes, “with a bunch of politicians. Even if it is a New Years party. But, you know, make up a better reason for us to not be there other than ‘we’re way too easily bored.”

That earned him a snigger from Adrienne as she checked something in her clutch. Her husband was practically bouncing on his heels beside her, eager to be off already.

“I’m sure they are more that happy to celebrate here,” she said, “now come on, we most certainly do not want to keep him waiting.”

“Not when Laf looks like he’s about to wet himself from excitement—Jesus, how long as it been since you’ve seen Ol’ George?” Alexander spoke up, freeing himself from Eliza’s last-minute alterations. The tall Frenchmen immediately huffed, sticking his nose up higher, “Too long. He is a brilliant man and your country should be honored to have him as a leader. Now come on. Let’s go before we miss midnight.” He opened the door with a dramatic gesture well-befitting of him, ushering both his wife and his friends out. As the cold winter winds fought into the room, the friendly sounds of bickering faded slowly out.

“You named your son George Washington, Laf. Come _on._ ”

“And how many of your sons have _Alexander_ in their name, again?”

Phillip only let his shoulders sink once he was sure they were gone. If he had to sit through another political dinner, he’d break down and judging by George’s relieved face next to him, he was thinking the same thing. Content that he had narrowly avoided the boredom of the dinner and the embarrassment of watching his father have to pretend to socialize with Jefferson, he tilted his head towards his younger siblings. “Scatter,” he ordered. “And don’t sneak out unless you plan on being back before one.” Knowing it wasn’t directed at her, Angie just rolled her eyes and made her way back upstairs anyway, already pulling her phone out to send a few messages. Alex and James, however, took the command to heart—immediately bolting for the peace of the upstairs bedrooms.

“So,” Phillip said, checking his phone for the time. It was past ten, too late for him to ask around about any better party going on for him and George to sneak off to. “I know the liquor cabinet in my dad’s office isn’t locked.” Phillip didn’t drink often, but he figured he might as well, right? It's a holiday, the Lafayette's were only in town for another week and Phillip's nerves were beyond shot. Might as well cram some underaged drinking into that mess for a full cocktail of mistakes.

“I genuinely forgot your country has such a strict limitation on your drinking,” he hummed, “Will he miss it too deeply?”

“I bet I can convince him he drank the rest of that bottle already,” he said with a faux-innocent tone as he meandered his way upstairs. It took him just a few short minutes to find the best bottle, but in the time he got back downstairs, George had already gotten down two glasses and found whatever channel the NYC festivities were on. Trying to keep down his grin, Phillip carefully poured out some whiskey for the both of them, passing a glass over before taking one for himself.

They looked like quite the pair, George in a nice button-up and Phillip in a grey sweater under the living room's dimmed lighting. They'd sat close enough for their knees to bump every once in a while, but far enough away that they couldn't be accused of anything happening between them. Everything was set up for A Moment. Capital A. Capital M. A comfortable silence in the air, George’s eyes meeting Phillip’s for just a moment as he reached for his glass. Totally. A Moment.

Phillip thumbed away a bead of condensation, watching the ice bob before finally steeling himself to take a drink.

Be cool.

He wasn’t cool. He raised the glass to his lips, and then promptly choked on the deep burn as he accidentally inhaled it instead. He nearly doubled over in his seat, coughing. Expensive whiskey splashed over the edge of his glass as he tried to set it down without toppling it—and nearly failing—as he certifiably wheezed.

It had to have only lasted a moment, maybe even half that, but it felt like a fucking hour of his own embarrassment caught up with him. He could feel his ears and cheekbones burn under his freckles, but that didn’t matter once he realized there was something else.

A hand rubbing his back.

Oh boy. George’s brow was furrowed with concern, “Are you alright?” He asked, pulling his hand back once Phillip sat back up (much to his dismay, he wouldn’t have if he’d known).

“Yeah,” his voice was thin. “Wrong,” he used a fist to knock against his chest, trying to clear out the rest of his burn. “Pipe, y’know.”

Once he was reassured at least twice that his friend was out of any immediate danger, George smiled again. “You’re very… cute.”

Phillip nearly choked again, this time without the added benefit of alcohol. “What?”

“You’re cute,” George repeated, shifting to face Phillip more and he wished he didn’t speak up because the smile vanished again, “Is that not the right word? Cute?”

“Depends on what you’re trying to say, I guess.”

“You take care of your family, you humor our father’s but you would also defend anyone you love with your life. You have this sense of honor that is bigger than yourself, a burden too, I suppose. And with all of this grace and dignity that comes with it, I saw you trip over your own feet this morning and fall face-first.” 

Damn. Phillip had hoped no one saw that. “I don’t know if cute’s the word, I guess,” He said after silence started to fill the space. “I mean, cute’s usually for like, babies and kittens and bo-girlfriends.” He cleared his throat. “For like, girlfriends and stuff too. Or animals. Or outfits too, I guess.”

“Then what would be the word?”

Charming? Adorable? Endearing? Engaging? Appealing? Phillip could list off adjective after adjective like a goddamn thesaurus but none of them made that queasy feeling go away. He summoned up a shrug instead and George just sighed, reclining into the couch as the TV droned on introducing another band at a low volume. His eyes were closed, as if he were thinking sincerely about something.

Phillip fought back the urge to take back everything he said and just let George say he was cute, it wasn’t like it mattered, right? George didn’t mean it like that, so it didn’t matter like that.

“Cute is also pretty often used with aesthetics.” He blurted before he actually knew what he was doing. The other boy cracked one of his eyes open at him, encouraging him to go on. “Like, you think something looks cute, usually. Behavior can be cute but when you just say something’s cute, it implies you think they… look cute. Like pretty.”

George made a little huffing noise, “In that case, mon chère, whatever you are—you are also cute.”

Oh. Well he certainly didn't mean like that, right? Friends could call friends cute.

Phillip swallowed hard. There was an hour until the new year rang in. “So are you, bro, so are you.”

Wow. Fucking smooth wasn’t he? This time the silence wasn’t comfortable at all, it felt more forced, more awkward and Phillip bit back his attempts to break it with stupid questions. Like, how are your sisters? How’s France? Would you like to make out until 2016? He managed to actually  _drink_ the whiskey in his glass this time, gladly refilling his glass as well as George's.

In the end, it took George scoffing about one of the bands to shatter the delicate silence between them—launching into a well-meaning debate about the constructs of a good pop song that ended so calmly and professionally with Phillip half-in George’s lap attempting to smother him with a throw pillow, demanding he recant his testimony that the bands, “old stuff was garbage anyway.”

“I’ll never give in,” George gasped, batting uselessly against Phillip’s pillow-based onslaught.

“How un-French of you,” Phillip teased, giving him a good thwack with the pillow on the edge of his taunt. George glared playfully, reaching for his glass to down the last of the amber liquid with a faint grimace.

“What are you doing?” Phillip asked, suddenly worried as George made sure to place the glass as far from the edge of the coffee table as he could.

“Vive la révolution,” he whispered, his hands on Phillip’s sides in a hard grip to turn the tables of the battle and send them both rolling onto the living room floor. Phillip wasn't totally sure if the yelp he heard had come from  _himself_ or George but his money was on himself as the world seemed to go floor-George-ceiling-floor-ceiling-George-floor-George-ceiling-George before coming to a halt with both Phillip pinned and the pillow in the Frenchman's possession. It wasn’t like in the movies, Phillip thought with what part of his brain wasn’t desperately trying not to embarrass the shit out of himself. They didn’t land in some compromising position where George was straddling him, propped up only by his hands.

His foot was twisted in a way that it really shouldn’t still be like that—George had him down with his knee against his hip and a hand against his shoulder and he was pretty sure the whole situation itself would’ve been deemed wholly Not Sexual by anyone except one particular member of the involved parties. Phillip.

George was obviously about to say something, but the loud cheering from the TV cut him off first.

_Ten!_ They called.

Oh shit. How long were they arguing?

George looked up towards the clock, in shock as the crowd cheered, _Nine!_ behind him.

“I promised I’d tell you before the new year, didn't I?” he said, almost stumbling over his words, “Shit, wait.”

_Eight!_

He scrambled off of Phillip and offered him a hand to help him up, Phillip took it right when _Seven!_ was announced. They were both on their feet by _Six!_

“I went to go see the campus a few days ago and I talked with some people and they said my chances for being accepted for next Fall were very, very high,” he rushed out on one breath. _Five!_

“I wanted to know as sure as I could before I told you because if it didn’t work it would be… crappy.”

_Four!_

“And we would have been so excited for nothing, but it looks so promising I couldn’t wait.”

_Three!_

“Phillip, I think I’m going to be going to Columbia.”

_Two!_ Phillip couldn’t breathe. George. Columbia, where Phillip was certain to go to.

_One!_ He didn’t think. He just moved.

He kissed him. A crowd of people blared celebrations from the TV set but it was all muted to the teens.

Hell, the world could’ve ended around him, but the second George kissed him back, Phillip Hamilton figured nothing else in the world really mattered.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Well there it is!   
> I was supposed to be working on the prequel piece (explaining more John and Alexander's relationship as well as how he met Eliza and Lafayette) but instead I decided to finally make them do the kiss thing.   
> If I'm feely frisky there might be another chronological piece after this, detailing the summer George spends with the Washington's to get accustomed to the city--but who knows.   
> Also as a side note the 'accidentally inhaling alcohol and choking because you're blinding by the cute' story is based on a true story (sadly mine, not Phillip Hamilton's)  
> Hit me up on tumblr @bad-robins-club if you feel so inclined, or on twitter @the_other_robin


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